


little boy blue

by lovelessly



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fucking Machines, Humiliation, M/M, Marking, Rape/Non-con Elements, Riding Crops, Sexual Abuse, Violence, Vore, Watersports, fireplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BLU Team/BLU Spy abuse, originally intended in 2 parts, now an ongoing saga of absolute torture and humiliation. (For the Spy, I mean. Not whoever's reading.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue

He kept his eyes open while they fucked him. Even when he could not discern much more than a hulking shadow, grunting and thrusting above his line of sight, he never took his gaze away. It did not make things any less bearable in the end, he could hardly pretend they were anyone else but his own teammates. But he told himself to look, to not cover his eyes, and before he realized it, they had finished, the shadow would become a man again, and it was time to clean up and get ready for the next. 

They never took long with him. Not this far out from town, from a woman’s embrace, from any other sort of release from boredom. 

He could not guess whose idea it was, and did not want to know, but perhaps they had intended this for him from the start. Better him, then, he had eventually concluded, after that first time with Scout, who broke down and cried pitifully in relief in his arms. At least he knew what to do, to soothe the rage and lust that drove a powerful man, how to please and flatter the ones he worked with, even if he could not hope to receive any valuable bits of pillow talk to use against their opponents. 

Well, nothing he could use in the battlefield, at any rate. 

The second time was less awkward, and by the fourth time, he felt a sort of insane sense of accomplishment. Then they started the hitting. And he could not help but wonder how the friendly fire mechanism never broke down during those long nights, even when it always seemed to break down in the middle of fighting for him. 

Engineer did not have an answer for him, but he never talked shop while fucking anyway. 

Fortunately, the bruises and cuts and soreness never lingered to the next day, not after a quick session sucking off Medic in the infirmary, and he would face the morning, whole and hale, ready to fight. He fought to win, of course, even though victory and defeat felt the same to him at night, the only difference being the tone of Soldier’s tirade in his ear. Which nonetheless was more interesting than Demo’s drunken blubbering, or Sniper’s guilty muttered “fuck fuck fuck…,” or Heavy’s oppressive silence broken only by the creak of the abused bed. 

 

Yet for all of that, Spy could hardly blame them for treating him as little more than a convenient warm hole. Because he was bored, too.


	2. Private

The very worst part was how it hurt nearly every single time. No amount of foresight or preparation seemed to help, and of course this was what they wanted the most from him, to fuck him raw, until he could no longer hold back the pained cries catching in his throat, until they pulled out, panting, satisfied at the damage they had wrought. Afterwards, if he had been especially good, he might feel their hands on him, rough palms sliding over his wet quivering thighs, sometimes apologetic, sometimes gloating. Never for too long, it wasn’t as if he were a woman, a human being with actual feelings. Just a tool, just one of the many the company provided for the team to help them get through the war. 

Though to be entirely accurate, in the general hierarchy of the base, there were several inanimate objects ranked higher than Spy, a fact Soldier took great pains to repeatedly emphasize to Spy, who had not advanced from Private for years. 

 

“Private” was standing at attention now, or a sloppy and French version of such, while Soldier paced furiously back and forth in the tiny room post-match, spittle flying from his teeth as he ranted and raved. 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Soldier growled as he pushed his face right up against Spy’s. “You were a disgrace out there, an utter disgrace, to the nation, to the company, to the team! We could have gotten that last point, if you had been doing your duty!” 

Duty. That was the one thing he had always done for these men, his “duty.” If lying on a bed with your legs spread could really count as a duty. Spy wanted to laugh, and maybe he did laugh, because the next thing he knew, he was spitting out blood and bits of molar onto the floor. 

For a second, they stared at each other, and there was just the slightest hesitation, the barest hint of self-knowledge in Soldier’s eyes. Then it was gone, and Spy tried to brace himself for what followed. Still, it took his breath away, the sting of the riding crop against his bare skin, almost hard enough to draw blood. He kept count of them, the welts rising angry red on his abdomen, his forearms, down his hips, but lost track once he caught sight of the obvious bulge below Soldier’s belt, that seemed to grow with each smack of the crop. 

“What are you looking at, you spineless worm?” Soldier sneered, tucking the crop below Spy’s bloody chin and lifting it so they were eye to eye again. 

“My duty, sir.” 

He stared straight ahead, unmoving, while Soldier cursed and undid his belt and fly, the riding crop forgotten for now. Shoved unceremoniously back against the bedroom wall, he let Soldier fumble for him, and did not resist the slide of the thick, meaty cock into his body. Time seemed to drag with each agonizing thrust in, copper still filling his mouth, the sharp scent of Soldier’s sweat in his nostrils, feeling hot breath against his cheek as the other man rammed into him over and over, an endless mad litany muttered at his ear. Yet before too long, he felt hands grasp his hips, and he stood on the tip of his toes as he was half lifted off the ground, as Soldier thrust into him three final times before coming with a loud grunt. 

 

“Do not let me down again, private, do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He tucked himself back in, expression still unreadable, then placed a manly pat on Spy’s shoulder. “Go get yourself cleaned up at the infirmary.” 

Which would mean he would have to walk down the hallway of their quarters out to Medic’s domain, naked but for his mask, the blood on his face, the semen down his legs. As long as no one saw him, but… someone always saw him.


	3. Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note that this fic is entirely out of order on purpose and not because I didn't plan to write anymore than an extra paragraph or two.

Not for the first time, he wished his invisibility device worked on his own team. All hope of escaping the banquet hall with his own meager dinner unnoticed had to be abandoned once they realized he was there, despite his best effort to be silent. Immediately, they called for him to join them at the celebratory feast, smiles all around; BLU had won after all, and captured the keep from RED today. Grimacing, Spy made his way to the head of the table, where the king of the day reigned over his unruly subjects. He did his best to ignore the hands feeling up his backside as he passed by his teammates, but there was no help for it once he reached Demo’s side. 

Because Demo had been crowned king of the keep, and so would be his master for the evening. 

“There’s my bonny lad, come here!” 

With a magnanimous grin, Demo patted his leg, and Spy fought the urge to roll his eyes. He set down his plate and perched lightly on Demo’s lap with as much dignity as he could muster. Around him the conversation continued, boastful recounts of the battle, highly improbable plans for tomorrow’s match, but he heard little of it. Too busy with the task of eating or drinking, or helping Demo with eating and drinking at any rate. 

Things might have been slightly more tolerable without the sloppy kisses Demo pressed on him between each bite or gulp, he thought, though not by much. There was the issue of where he was sitting, the way with each tiny shift to reach for the roast beef, each movement to bring the goblet to his lips, Demo moved as well, responding with almost admirable swiftness to the pressure against his groin. Then the matter of what Demo was doing with the hand not rubbing his hip with deliberate, possessive, slowness. That was harder to overlook; the fingers plucking his shirt from his trousers, the warm palm skating up his bared stomach, the thumb brushing over his nipples. 

Very soon did the conversation falter, and several pairs of blue eyes glared enviously over at the king and his coveted treasure. Caught in the crossfire, Spy could not help feeling a flicker of alarm, a very real fear that he would be stripped and assaulted right there on the table in front of everyone, because it had happened, or almost did, back in the beginning, before he learned that he could not say no. 

With a haughty glare at the rest of the team, Demo then grabbed him by the chin, kissing him roughly, his scrumpy-laden tongue insistent in Spy’s mouth. 

“Wait for me in my room,” Demo murmured against his lips. “I’ll be up soon, I want ye to be ready when I am, y’hear?” 

Spy could not get out of there fast enough, away from their laughter, raucous in his burning ears. The fading sounds of goblets clinking chased at his heels as he ascended the staircase and closed the chamber door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he approached the grand bed, drawing back the furs and embroidered coverlet, sinking into the soft mattress wistfully. A glass of the scrumpy left on the bedside table to soothe the nerves, before he began disrobing under the light of the flickering torches. He set his clothes aside, neatly folded, then laid back to prepare himself with the lubricant set out for his use. 

He was always torn between getting the process over as quickly as possible, and lingering over the sensation of being gently, tenderly probed and stretched. This was the closest he would ever get to any sort of pleasure from the act, he knew, and so he stole a few moments for himself, coaxing his limp organ to semi-hardness, imagining someone else… anyone else… on top of him, inside of him… 

The door opened too soon, and he bit back a guilty groan as Demo stumbled into the room, thoroughly soused. Not too inebriated to fuck, though, Spy was dismayed to note. 

“Och, no need to get ahead of yerself, I’m here now,” Demo leered, his one eye burning darkly with unquenched lust. 

On shaking legs, Spy rose up to greet his king, helping him out of his sweater, his boots, his pants and boxers. He only had a moment to massage lube onto the large, dark cock throbbing hotly in his hands before Demo was yanking him around and shoving him face-first into the bed. What was left of his erection immediately wilted in the force of the other man pushing into him, and he clutched at the sheets desperately. The next thrust drove into him even deeper, and he gasped aloud, to Demo’s obvious amusement. 

“Ye always treat me well, let me return the favor.” 

Across the room, a beautiful ornate mirror captured their reflections in red-limned glow. It was a scene out of Hell, Spy realized, and look, there was his soul, that had been won by the King of Devils himself.


	4. Regime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm trash.

None of the other men liked to fuck him after Heavy had used him; they complained he was ruined for the rest of the night, no good to them in that condition. After those first few weeks of being tied naked to a bed, just left out, utterly exposed, for anyone passing by who happened to be in the mood for some stress relief, the team finally settled in a sort of schedule to better satisfy everyone’s egos. 

So that meant Heavy had to be the last to go. He made no indication that this bothered him, and as for Spy, seeing the huge man enter his room at least signaled the end of the night’s ordeal. It was actually a relief, then. 

And Heavy was… not the worst of the team, not usually. He seemed to only want Spy for something to fuck, to stick his cock in, to come in; he hardly spoke more than a sentence each session, and the bruises and bleeding he left behind came from the act of penetration, the actual orgasm, and nothing more. 

Which was why Spy was surprised to see Heavy looming in his doorway early that evening, his bulky silhouette stretching across the wooden floor of the little room. Spy had not even undressed yet, and he glanced at his watch in confusion. 

Heavy laughed at his expression, a deep rumbling chuckle. “Is only me tonight.” He closed the door behind him with a rather final-sounding click. “We will have fun, leetle Spy. Just you and me.” 

“But of course.” With some difficulty, Spy tried to school his look of horror into something more seductive, reminding himself of his place on the team. “How may I… please you?” 

Two massive hands gently pushed him onto the bed, leaning him back onto the pillows. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Heavy take off his undershirt, heard the hiss and clink of the belt, the rustle of trousers piling on the ground. The mattress dipped as Heavy knelt over him, between his legs, after spreading them a little further apart than he was exactly comfortable with. 

“Leetle Spy is so leetle.” 

He made to protest - he was tall and solid, if perhaps a little on the lean side - but the way Heavy’s giant hand easily encircled his thigh, the way it could nearly wrap around his waist, and the words died on his lips. In silence, he let Heavy unbutton his jacket, his waistcoat, then he moved to help him fiddle with the tiny buttons of his dress shirt. Heavy frowned and simply tore the shirt off his torso and tossed it aside, as if it were nothing more than tissue paper wrapping a gift box. Holding his breath, Spy laid unresisting as Heavy worked his trousers off, lifting one leg up at a time to wriggle the fabric over his sock-clad feet. 

Heavy murmured appreciatively in Russian as he glanced over him. He bent forward to nuzzle at Spy’s throat, tongue lapping at the edge of his collarbone. His teeth brushed against Spy’s flesh, down and down, pausing to catch at his belly, nibbling lightly at the skin. All the while, he made little groans of delight, lips smacking in a nauseating display of happiness. Then hefting a skinny leg over his bullish shoulder, Heavy sank his teeth into the muscle there and worried at it over and over, until he drew his mouth away and left behind a deep red mark in its place. 

Spy was sure Heavy would soon forget and start eating him alive, tearing him limb from limb as one would devour a roast chicken. Even worse, he might remember, and Spy shuddered to imagine himself, mutilated yet still alive, screaming as Heavy pounded into the wreckage of his body. 

Finally, Heavy seemed to collect himself. Fully aroused, he fondled Spy’s ass, thick fingers probing curiously between his buttocks. 

“N-no… no one yet, not today,” Spy responded to the unspoken question. “You are the first.” 

“Good.” 

Heavy reached for the bedside drawer, rummaged among the riding crops and cuffs and lighters and knives and worse for the lubricant. Moving with tectonic speed, he attended to his own erection first, before placing one slick finger against Spy’s hole, teasingly. He pushed in just a little bit, chuckling to see Spy writhe in obvious pain. Then Heavy kept on pushing, marveling at the tightness dragging around his knuckle, and his neglected cock bobbed in urgent need. Setting Spy down onto his lap, Heavy spread his thighs as far apart as they would go, and watched hungrily as his enormous cock pushed into that deliciously tight hole. 

Spy could not even gasp for the sensation of being so thoroughly, mercilessly invaded took the air out of his lungs. He fought to cry out, only to feel Heavy pressing on top of him, crushing him with his weight. He was drowning, suffocating, but his struggle for breath merely drove the other mercenary to hammer into him even more vigorously, the bed knocking against the wall in erratic rhythm. He was going to die like this, he knew it. 

He did not die. He was still alive when Heavy thrust into him one last time, roaring as he filled him to overflowing with hot cum. 

He was still alive in the morning, left tracing with his fingertips the red bite marks tattooed on his skin that the Medigun could not erase, that the other men could not fail to notice when they took him that night.


	5. Poppet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some mildly fucked up shit. Stream of consciousness, trying something different, will get back to your regularly scheduled fucked up shit next time.

It rarely sought his company, not like the others did, who came to him night after night, week after week. Because his body did not burn as the RED Spy’s burned; he was not that interesting, not worth the attention. But sometimes it got the itch, that bits of paper and wood could not satisfy in their soundlessness, and when that happened, their own Spy could be counted on to play the game. 

And if it shared its toys, if it was on its bestest best behavior, eventually it could not tell the difference between each man’s laughs. Of course, it took a while to make their Spy laugh, he was so very serious all of the time, but Pyro liked the challenge. It liked how happy Spy looked when he laughed, the way he bared his teeth in a chuckle, the way tears streamed from his eyes in sheer amusement. 

That was the most fun of all. 

 

\-----   
From his seat on a stool, he watched in dread as Pyro squatted on the floor, as it opened his cigarette case and pulled out a stick to set alight. Naked, defenseless, he fought down a shudder at the first bloom of pain against the sole, right in the arch, the cigarette end digging into his skin until it burnt out and left behind a circular pucker of raw red. But he did not move yet, for there were still nine more cigarettes to go through, and Pyro had many lighters to use. 

It was not as if he had anywhere to run to, on maimed and bleeding feet, he learned that early on. This was simply a ritual for them now, with Pyro the worshipper, and he the eternal sacrifice. 

Then there were the matches, a temporary flick of flame dancing over his bared shins and hips and stomach, almost unnoticeable amidst the background discomfort. A Zippo lighter after those, that provided prolonged contact, a sharper, hotter flare. The kitchen torch next, crisping the top layer of dermis by the sound of it, though to his eyes he saw nothing different to mark the growing burn. 

By now the iron poker in the furnace had gotten good and hot. By now he was biting his tongue hard enough to taste blood, trying to breathe through his mouth to block out the smell of his own roasting flesh. 

 

\-------   
So close. It could see Spy’s composure fracturing at the edges, the smile that bled the corners of his mouth as he fought down a giggle. With a delighted exclamation, Pyro shuffled over to the furnace, where its secret weapon lay curing, and it pulled the poker out of the coals with a flourish. The tip glowed white hot, setting the air around it shimmering, and for a moment, Pyro stared at it, enraptured. Then it glanced over at Spy and began to walk around him in a slow circle, humming thoughtfully… trying to remember where he was most ticklish. 

 

\-----   
He could not see himself burn. He couldn’t see his skin scorch and singe and peel and blister as the poker skimmed over his ribs and belly and shoulders and back. He couldn’t see how his flesh would occasionally stick to the metal and tear and rip off his body, couldn’t hear it fall to the ground with a sickening, quivering squelch. He just felt it. Until finally, he stopped feeling, once the neurons and receptors of his nervous system shriveled and died under the unwavering heat. And in a blind panic, he opened his mouth to scream. 

 

\------   
There was that laugh at last. It was such a beautiful sound, bubbling from deep inside his lungs and filling the room with glitter and rainbows and birdsong. It was absolute magic, the kind that set one’s body aflame with reckless desire. Pyro burned for it, yearned for it. Pyro wanted it to last forever. But try as it might, Spy eventually calmed down, and the laughter faded away into hiccups. 

 

\-----   
“Please, stop, stop,” he begged, sobbing quietly under his breath. And listening, Pyro took mercy on him, and took him to bed. That was not by any means better, but at least he could not feel anything. No pain, no pleasure. So he considered it a mercy, to do nothing but watch the blank void of the masked face above him, listening to the quickening huffing breaths as it rutted against his ravaged body, until it finally stilled in a deep sigh of release. He allowed himself to close his weary eyes then, draped his arms loosely over the suit of the creature they called Pyro, and let himself drift away while it pulled its gasmask loose just enough to kiss him all over with ash-dry lips, and praise him in sweet hymns of adulation.


	6. Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Urine” trouble if you think this part isn’t gonna be about piss. Sorry, Sniper/Spy is my worst pairing, I just can't seem to write it to anyone's satisfaction, and also readers at the chan seemed to completely misunderstand what and who I was referencing, but that's okay, all shall be revealed in good time...

Their Sniper caught him just three yards outside of the infirmary, bore down on him with all the terrifying focus of a hawk on the hunt. 

“What, you forgot about me already?” Sniper asked, almost teasing. “Nah, ‘ course you didn’t. C’mon now, Spook, got a quiet little place out back just for us.” 

Spy suffered in silent indignation at being tossed over the man’s shoulder, hefted up deliberately and mockingly, because Sniper could never let go of a grudge, and did his best to not squirm when one free hand skimmed over the curve of his ass possessively. 

“Ah, you like that,” Sniper growled, giving his exposed rump a light slap. The rumble of Sniper’s voice reverberated through his thighs and stomach, like a warning, and he stilled in defeat. 

Despite his calm tone, there was noticeable urgency in Sniper’s long strides, and they passed through the cool desert night air for only a moment before entering the camper van. In a blur of movement, Spy was set on his feet and shoved hard against the metal door of the vehicle. He braced himself against the camper’s interior, tensed, but to his surprise, the expected assault never arrived. Sniper only stared at him, wordlessly drinking in the sight of his battered face and naked, violated body; the welts and bite marks on his thighs, the blood-filled gaps in his teeth, the barely visible burns splashed all across his torso. 

“They did good on ya,” Sniper said at last, hands rising to close over Spy’s throat, thumbs brushing back and forth across his cut lower lip. “But I can do better.” He watched through narrowed eyes as Spy carefully opened his mouth to lap at the pads of his fingers, lips then closing down over the bruised thumb before sucking at it with soft, wet sounds. Sniper’s grin widened, sharklike, and he leaned further into Spy, pressing his groin against him, relishing this compliance. Until finally he withdrew, letting his hands drop to Spy’s waist briefly, lingering just for a second. Thus released, Spy sank slowly to his knees, trembling from exhaustion, from the dreadful certainty that more was yet to come. 

“Heh, you must be thirsty, Spook, after fucking what, half the team. Here, relax… drink up.” 

A large hand reached down to cup the back of his skull, and he opened his mouth instinctively to take in the cock before him, swallowing his shame as he swallowed Sniper’s considerable length. Weeks, no, months, of submission took over any vestige of self-respect, his lips and tongue moved on their own, working over the half-hard cock, licking and sucking and kissing to the background of Sniper’s increasingly harsh panting. Then, with a grunt and a jerk of his hips, Sniper pulled out, and Spy gasped at the sudden emptiness in his mouth. 

That was his only warning, as a hot stream of piss splashed onto his chin, dripping onto his chest and down his belly and thighs, utterly drenching him in seconds. 

Cock in hand, Sniper proceeded to rub himself alongside Spy’s cheek, against his mask, staining the material with sweat and saliva and piss. Grinding his scent into Spy’s very being, adding his own indelible brand to the visible ones already marking his body. 

“That’s better. But you never did get your drink, did you?” Sniper continued, one hand leisurely reaching down to pump his cock. “What a terrible host I am. C’mere, open up…” 

Pushed to the brink, Spy shook his head no, even as Sniper pressed himself against his closed lips. He was already close to gagging from the foul reek of piss, he refused to debase himself any further. Annoyed but not discouraged, Sniper resorted to guiding Spy to hands and knees on the floor of the van, kneeling behind him, cupping then spreading his cheeks apart. It was easy afterwards, to line himself up, to slide in to that hot waiting hole, all the way to the hilt. 

Sniper moved with the steady patience of a trained marksman, long, deep strokes in and out, while under him Spy arced and writhed, pinned, helpless. Even as he lost himself to the pleasure of sex, that cold professional façade of his quickly began to fracture, and quiet curses soon spilled from his lips with each slam home. Just one guttural word, yet it burned potent with rage and guilt and agonizing envy. 

One last hard thrust, one final low groan, and Sniper was spending himself in Spy’s ass, his cum leaking out from the pressure, to mix with the trails of semen left behind by Soldier and Demo and everyone else who had had fucked Spy earlier that night. Wrung out, sated, Sniper dropped against Spy’s sweaty back. Impatiently, Spy broke free, elbowing Sniper out of the way as he struggled to his feet. 

Getting up from the filthy camper floor, Sniper chuckled under his breath, the contented sound somehow menacing at the same time. 

“You smell right now, Spook,” he breathed into Spy’s ear, pulling the other mercenary close, began fondling him nonchalantly. “You’re ours, every last sweet bit of ya.” 

“You are sick, absolutely sick,” Spy hissed, unable to keep from shaking with outrage, not at his helplessness, but at the disgusting, needy way he clung to the sensation of being pawed all over by those callused hands. “The others, they will know about this.” 

“They already do, love,” Sniper answered with a grin. “I just want him to know as well, so when he sees you, when he smells you, he’ll know who you really belong to.” 

He was about to ask who, who else besides the BLU team would care to give him a second glance, when the answer made itself clear, clear as the writing on the wall. Or drinking vessel, in this case. Spy would have laughed if he wasn’t so tired, so horrified, because he realized he really wanted that drink after all. Instead, he lowered his eyes, let Sniper have his way, until the other mercenary eventually grew bored and distant, and he was kicked out into the night to walk back to the waiting Medic alone.


	7. Glitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Pyro’s chapter is not part of the theme, and yes, Sniper was being irrationally jealous of the other Sniper, which is part of the theme that this chapter sort of continues, if I didn't fuck it up, anyway. If you are still not understanding, that's okay, I will be spelling everything out by the final part... If there is one.

Sometimes after the day’s battle, the Spy would hesitate, wanting to run, to tell someone, to find help to escape this madness somehow, as if anyone would believe him or possibly defy the will of eight elite mercenaries. But only for a moment; then his body would turn to the BLU’s base of its own accord, and step after unwilling step, he trudged along in the bloody, lusty wake of his teammates. 

It was this same dreaded compulsion that woke him out of a fitful doze in the night and brought him to his feet. Four of them had already seen him so far, using him badly, and he desperately needed to rest. But that must wait for the Engineer’s demand. 

On weary legs, the Spy made his way through the crowded workshop, around piles of sheet metal and racks of ammunition and cases of ball bearings and spools of wire. All of the machines and inventions here waiting to be completed or repaired by their creator, while he alone was to be broken and ruined. 

The Engineer never lacked for ideas for their sessions, gifted as he was with a natural creativity for destruction. Such viciousness seemed at odds with his country-sweet demeanor, yet the Spy could not recall when a night’s work had been repeated. He bore the marks temporarily; the rope burns, the shredded flesh, the bruised bones, but his entire self recalled the horror implicitly. 

Apparently, the Engineer had made progress on his latest darling, a mass of welded blue steel now recognizable as a vaguely human figure propped up in a dark corner of the room. With a start, the Spy saw himself clearly in the machine, in its sparingly jointed limbs, the almost solemn cast of its inscrutable faceplate. Cautiously, he edged closer, mind reeling as he attempted to make sense of this horrific discovery. 

“Still not as good as the real thing, you’re thinkin’?” drawled a deep voice by his ear. 

The Spy shook his head mutely, trying to affect a mask of uncaring this close to his oppressor. 

“Maybe so. Haven’t taken him for a test run yet,” the Engineer stated, giving the robot’s arm a fond pat. “And I doubt he could replace you even fully functional. The men prefer you, in the flesh. But it was a thought I had, to maybe fix what’s wrong with ya.” 

“What is wrong with me?” he asked, his own voice sounding dull and hopeless in his ears. 

“Nothin’ I can’t sort out.” 

He shuddered to feel those icy steel fingers teasing at his ass, one mechanical appendage slipping into his anus to test the limits of this intrusion, then easing back out. 

“Come along, I’ll take a look at ya, see what I can do.” 

The shrewd, measuring look in the Engineer’s blue eyes promised the absolute worst his genius could contrive, in essence, no different than his counterpart in RED. As the Spy was led aside, he sensed for a second the robot turning to watch its creator take him away, and sickened, he steadied his nerves for what would transpire next. 

 

There stood a sentry of sorts, modified for the Engineer’s entertainment, which had been erected under an exposed bulb, conveniently close by the workbench. The saddle fastened to its top sported a different attachment this night, cruelly designed, and the Spy’s stomach clenched in apprehension. 

Wordlessly, he mounted the sentry, using one of the looped cords dangling from the ceiling to help lower his body onto the obscene saddle. Choking back a pained gasp, the Spy felt the overly large implement slide into him inch by inch, semen and lubricant streaming down his legs in response. His thighs quaked from the exhausting effort of holding himself up over the machine, and he whimpered, helpless. 

“Git yerself down, boy.” The Engineer’s voice from behind him, then rough hands at his waist, forcing his buttocks apart. Too shocked to exclaim, the Spy let himself be maneuvered the final inch onto the saddle, earning a light slap of approval on one cheek once his bottom hit the smooth cured leather. 

The machine surged to life at the press of a switch, and began thrumming relentlessly beneath him, within him. He grabbed at the hanging cords frantically, breath coming out in shallow puffs as he strained to ease the pressure, but the attachment was locked inside and continued pounding away at his innards with clockwork implacability. 

Somewhere he knew the Engineer was sitting down to watch him get fucked, unfastening his overalls, palming his boxers before succumbing and stroking himself in delight. Only machines could ever elicit such arousal from the man, being the only things he loved, though despite all that, he would always be sure to stop and spread the Spy over his workbench in order to finish off inside him. That was the protocol, which he made sure to never stray from. 

Without warning, the machine jumped erratically and the Spy cried aloud at the sudden thrust, while the Engineer groaned in obvious pleasure. Out of the corner of his tear-blurred vision, he could see the other mercenary had tugged something rubbery over his own plump cock, which encased it completely and seemed to somehow be attuned to the sentry’s mechanism. Now, with each hard thrust into his fist, the Engineer set off a similar rocking action from the machine. The Spy had no choice but to hold on and endure the indignity silently. 

After what seemed like hours, he heard the Engineer finally say, “All right, sweetheart, you’re done here.” The machine rumbled to a juddering stop, and he was being lifted off the saddle and cradled in brawny arms. 

“Ain’t that better?” 

He wanted nothing more to sleep, and hoped that the Engineer would be content with just shooting his load into his open mouth and then letting him go back to his room. If only. Instead, the Engineer had repositioned him into his lap, was now impaling him onto his copiously dripping cock, forcing himself through the hole made slack and bloody by the sentry’s motions. Surrendering, the Spy laid his head on the man’s shoulder, let himself be bounced and jiggled up and down that stout length, until the Engineer grunted deeply and came inside him, filling him once again. 

After the Engineer pulled out of him, he fell back gracelessly onto the table top, amidst blueprints and worksheets now darkening with his sweat. Through drooping eyelids, his brain automatically pieced together lines of printed code, respawn data, timestamps, locations, method of death. Replays of the week’s battles, for the most part, and yet something seemed off. The Spy’s eyes widened when he saw his name several times, hundreds of times, where it did not belong. Heart hammering in his chest, he reached over to bring one sheet closer. 

A steel hand snatched the printout away. 

“You always asked me what went wrong,” the Engineer muttered grimly. “I thought you were just playing dumb.” 

The Respawn glitches, the Spy had always suspected, but the friendly fire messing up, the teleport and dispenser malfunctions… “What is wrong?” Not with him, but with the entire system that controlled their lives. His life. 

“How long were you gone, Spy? When they stole you away?” 

“I don’t understand.” Did he mean… when he respawned head separated from his body? Some years ago, when he was kept by the RED Medic, for not much longer than a couple of weeks, if he had to estimate... 

“Months. We were left with a brainless meat-puppet for months while they used you for their experiments! Even after Solly and Scout brought you back, you still didn’t respawn properly. Of course not. They had you for so long.” The artificial hand flexed dangerously in the fluorescent light, yet its metal fingers caressed his cheek with surprising gentleness.

“But you aren’t with them anymore, Spy. You’re part of our team, you’re a BLU, one of us. That’s why I gotta keep fixing you. Why we gotta make you right again. Understand?” 

Meeting the Engineer’s glance, the Spy managed a brittle, blood-stained smile. Yes, he understood now. They did fix him every night, in their own particular way. He saw the reboot data with his own eyes. Every morning, he woke in a strong, regenerated body with a heart that glowed blue, ready to fight. 

But in order to fix something, it had to be broken in the first place.


End file.
